


The Things We Know of People, Or: We Know Nothing

by Maracuya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkwardness, Dubious Consent, F/M, First Time, Forced Marriage, King's Landing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 15:27:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17103176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maracuya/pseuds/Maracuya
Summary: Post-Battle-of-the-Blackwater:Sandor hasn't deserted during the Battle of the Blackwater. He's rather something akin to a war hero – and that, in its turn has got consequences...





	1. Exposition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zip001](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zip001/gifts).



> This story is written for the SanSan Secret Santa Exchange 2018.  
> The prompt was: “I know you do.”
> 
> NOTE: Sansa is aged up to some extent. Otherwise leaning towards book canon.  
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything. All the credits go to Grrm.

Sansa breathed in and out and looked towards Blackwater Bay from atop Maegor's Holdfast. The deadly garish green coming from the wildfire that eaten so many lives during the murderous battle was still all too vivid in her memory. The worst effects of the fighting had already been cleared, but Sansa knew it would take time for the city to heal.

Like it would take time for the people to heal.

 

Never would Sansa forget the moment when someone had carried a howling, wounded Sandor Clegane into the Red Keep. An enemy's sword had found the scarred man's side and had bitten through metal and into the flesh beneath. Sansa couldn't even fathom which forces had to have been at work to overcome metal armour... as well as Sandor Clegane's ferocity.

“I cut down the bastard,” the Hound had ground out between clenched teeth. Sweat had been on his brow, and his complexion had been ashen.

Sansa had come to understand how badly the tall warrior was wounded and that he might not survive the night if she didn't make sure a maester saw to him. So she had run around in the Red Keep until she had found a healer – and when the man had told her he was busy with some other fighters, she'd pointed out, “Surely the king will have a particular opinion about a man letting his Shield die.”

That was what it had needed to get the man's attention. Sansa had felt some kind of warped relief about it all. That a reference to Joffrey's blatant sadism could be helpful one day...

Sandor had howled and cursed in agony until he'd passed out when the maester had patched him up. At his side, Sansa had felt a great shock: there was the foul language, the ugly, gaping wound... but also the sight of a naked, hairy, masculine torso... Of course, she had seen Mikken's muscled, bare arms in the smithy of Winterfell, but somehow, this situation had been different. Sansa refused to ponder it all.

 

She hadn't seen the Hound ever since the night vigil at his side, never since the healer had told her there was a little chance Sandor Clegane might live. Of course, it had been too early to be sure, but Sansa knew she'd have learned of the man's demise. Instead, she'd heard stories of how someone of Stannis's men had tried to reach and to kill the king far behind the actual fighting lines, and of how the Hound had countered the attack after others had fallen, including Meryn Trant. Yes, the Red Keep was still ablaze with wild talk about the heroism of that night.

 

Sansa breathed in and out again.

“ _There is still enough time for a quick prayer in the Godswood before the upcoming court session,”_ she mused.

So she descended the steps and hurried on. Thankfully, her keepers knew her customs well enough and didn't cause her any problems. They fell behind when she entered the Godswood and left her to her own devices. Quickly, Sansa moved on to the place she liked most for praying. She fell to her knees, closed her eyes and thought of her loved ones.

 

A crunching sound behind her – a heavy boot on gravel – caused her to start. She turned around... and found herself face to face with Sandor Clegane. Sansa gasped. The Hound was wearing his olive tunic, which covered some remaining bandages underneath. His sword was at his side, but there was no other armour. It was a miracle he was up and about at all.

“Ah, so you're still frightened of me, little bird,” the Hound growled and blew the air through his nose.

Sansa's heartbeat was a bit faster than it had been moments before.

“I didn't expect you – or anyone,” she said sheepishly and rose, eyes lowered. “I use to pray here every day.”

“I know you do,” Clegane answered in that raspy voice of his. “Most private place around the Red Keep, isn't it? If I wanted to fuck a kitchen maid, I'd rather do it here than in any room where there could be secret ears listening.”

 

Sansa felt heat rising in her cheeks.

“Why do you always have to say such ribald things? And why are you here at all? You should be in bed recovering from your injury.”

Clegane snorted again.

“One day, you'll find out that fucking is just a normal part of life, not something to fuss about. And I'm here because I needed some fresh air. The bed is for dodderers, not the likes of me. Moreover, the king wishes to see me at court session.”

Sansa blinked.

“He does? But you're not on duty!”

Sandor Clegane chuckled darkly.

“Looks like he wants to throw his dog a bone of sorts, as long as the memory of me saving his arse is still fresh. Hilarious story, that.”

The tall warrior was suddenly right in front of her, stooping over her, and he murmured into her ear, “Really, it's funny, little bird. Do you know what I was doing when that would-be assassin attacked? I was just about to leave the battle. To tell Joffrey he could go fuck himself. I needed to go to some place that wasn't burning. But no, suddenly, there's this weird hulaballoo right behind me, there's this man cutting his way through to the king. I should have cheered him on. Would have all saved us lots of upcoming pain. Joffrey was already pissing himself in fear. But damn me and my ingrained reflexes. I didn't even think. And there I was, splitting the man in half and receiving a nasty blow in return. Blast it all.”

 

Sansa's head spun at the sheer enormity of the Hound's admission. She didn't know what to say to it.

Clegane laughed again.

“No pretty words for this madness, right? But be that as it may. Now off with you to the throne room. It's getting late for the court session.”

“What about you, ser?”

“I'm no ser! How often do I have to tell you? And don't you worry, you'll see me again in due time when the king calls me in. Looks like he wants to put on a special mummery.”

“Oh,” Sansa made and nodded. “All... right. See you later then.”

With those words she left.

 

Sansa was excited against her will when she saw the throng of people in the throne room. As usual, she kept herself at the back so as to avoid Joffrey's attention. But even from her place Sansa could see the king was in high spirits.

First, Mace Tyrell from Highgarden spoke up and talked about his daughter, who allegedly had a crush on Joffrey. The king was delighted.

And then, it happened.

Joffrey pretended to hesitate... and ended his and Sansa's betrothal. Suddenly, everyone was looking at Sansa. She was overwhelmed, but luckily, she was also wise enough to droop her shoulders and to hang her head.

On the inside, however, she jubilated.

“ _I won't have to marry him! I won't!”_

She wanted to laugh and to sing and to dance, but of course, that was no option.

 

Contented, the king turned away from her and even refrained from tormenting her any further. Instead, he had someone call in the Hound. The big doors opened, and Sandor Clegane arrived on the scene. His movements were slow, stiff and controlled. Surely, his wound was still painful.

When he had reached the throne, the king spoke, “Dog! It's good to see you again, and almost recovered. We want it to be known that We're most content with how you've carried out your duty during the Battle of the Blackwater. Therefore, We wish to reward you. As it happens, this reward necessitates it to release you from your post as a man of the Kingsguard.”

 

Whispers erupted in the throne room and Sansa could barely believe her ears. First Barristan Selmy and now Sandor Clegane! Who'd be released next? Wasn't it a position for life anymore? Obviously not!

 

Meanwhile, the king went on, “But be assured, Dog, that you're still in Our graces. Therefore, I'll grant you a lordship.”

Sansa noticed that Sandor Clegane, who was already rigid to begin with, tensed even more.

“Your Grace?” he managed to utter.

Joffrey grinned at him, having the time of his life.

“Yes, indeed, Dog. Someone like you should have a nice kennel. Including bones. Only you'd actually have to rebuild this kennel. Will mean lots of work, but it'll be worth it, We'd say. There's some land and a title that have been lying fallow for ages now where it would be better to be cultivated. We hereby declare you the new Lord of Castamere.”

 

Wild chattering exploded all around. Sansa felt lightheaded, and she couldn't even begin to imagine the shock that must have engulfed Sandor Clegane. The tall warrior's scarred mouth was twitching, that was as much as Sansa could see.

“Your Grace, surely this is some kind of jest?” the Hound ventured forth with his hoarse voice after a moment.

“Oh, not at all, not at all,” Joffrey emphasised, still grinning like a loon. “I'm not even done. A Dog like you should breed and give me little capable curs that can help defend Our kingdom. And I happen to know someone who needs to be kept on a short lash as she's a traitor's daughter. You'll marry Sansa Stark.”

 

From this point onwards, Sansa's world turned into a blur. Someone dragged her in front of the throne. A septon appeared out of nowhere. Which kind of mad sham was this?

Only... it wasn't a sham. Sansa was so overwhelmed her head was spinning – but if she understood one thing it was that the king was waiting for her to balk. Was expecting her to balk. He wanted her head on a spike. Wanted a reason to have her killed.

Mental images of Eddard Stark in front of the Sept of Baelor popped up in Sansa's mind. They set her mouth in motion whenever it was necessary for her to speak. She heard Sandor Clegane's dark, husky voice next to hers, but she couldn't make heads or tails of the words. It didn't matter. Was there a cloak around her shoulders? Sansa half hoped its rope at the neck would strangle her on the spot, but it didn't. Of course, it didn't, even if it felt the part.

The only thing she did notice was the turmoil in her bridegroom's eyes when he stooped over her at the end of the ceremony. His lips were on hers for the briefest moment, but they were gone again before Sansa could register what they'd been like. And then, it was done.

 

Joffrey sounded half disappointed and half triumphant when he waved them aside. On the one hand, he hadn't been granted an opportunity to execute Sansa Stark, but on the other hand, the concept of her and his Dog joined in matrimony seemed to entertain him no end.

 

Sansa was still beyond herself and barely realised it when yet another person entered the throne room. It was Tywin Lannister atop his destrier. The animal left a dungheap in its wake. Under different circumstances, Sansa might have asked herself if the animal had done it out of spite, in case the horse's character matched his master's.

Apart from this minor incident, however, the old lion in his shiny, golden armour had a splendid entry. Everyone else was mightily impressed, but Sansa couldn't have cared less. It turned out the king was making his grandfather his Hand. At first, Lord Lannister appeared to be content – in a dark, powerful, collected way. But then, his golden-grey eyebrows knitted, which indicated he was sensing his glorious moment wasn't the only climax of this court session. Sansa had a whiff of a feeling that the Lannister patriarch wasn't informed of the previous wedding – and something told her he wouldn't approve of what had been going on.

“ _I'm doomed,”_ she thought.

Then again – hadn't she been doomed the moment she had left Winterfell?

 


	2. Climax

As soon as the court session ended, Sansa felt an iron grip on her arm. There was a gravelly murmur in her ear.

“No need to wait for the king to call for an official bedding. Come along.”

If there was one thing Sansa could agree to in her confused state, it was this. So she didn't fight Sandor Clegane and followed suit at once.

What a good thing it was in this context that the Hound was such a big and intimidating man! When he pushed through the throng of people, murder in his eyes, the courtiers parted in front of him and melted away like water droplets on a red-hot metal plate.

 

They both didn't speak in the corridors of the Red Keep, and Sansa didn't ask where they were heading. Truth be told, she didn't even consider the question, because she was still too shocked to do anything else but react.

Their feet were heavy on the cold flagstones of the keep. Even her much lighter steps were. Boom, boom, boom! Doom, doom, doom!

 

Only when they reached the entrance door did Sansa start to wonder what Clegane's intentions were.

“Where are we going?” she breathed.

“I'm taking you back to where I've found you,” the Hound rasped without looking at her. Sansa blinked, and he growled, “To the Godswood, for fuck's sake!”

Sansa winced, because his voice was so ferocious. She didn't dare to ask him any more.

 

At least not until they arrived on the spot where they had met earlier on.

“Why are we here?” she finally wanted to know.

“The stupid little bird didn't listen, did she?” Sandor Clegane snarled. “This is the most private place we can find. Certainly more private than my own room, given how Joffrey must have put a spy in the vicinity to eavesdrop on the newlyweds.” And after a huff, “Fuck, I need some wine.”

 

Sansa felt dread knot in her stomach. Her befuddled mind hadn't made it to the consummation of the marriage yet, but now, it all shot into focus. Sweet Mother have mercy! And Clegane – _“My bridegroom...”_ – was in the foulest possible mood.

Still, she was so nervous she simply had to ask, “Why would you need wine? Wouldn't I be the one who... uuuhhh...”

Her voice faltered, and her cheeks were burning.

Clegane threw back his head and uttered a short sound of laughter. It didn't sound happy.

“Would be best to have a wineskin for each of us. Even better a barrel. If it weren't too dangerous to return to the aftermath of this thrice-damned court session. And why me, little bird? I could always do with some Dornish red. Especially when I've got to commit my very first rape. The last category where I've never been like my brother. Did you know that? No, of course you didn't, air-headed little bird that you are.”

 

Sansa's stomach did a weird flip. She remembered the Tourney of the Hand when Sandor had told her the story of his facial scars. The story of his ghastly giant brother. On instinct, Sansa knew that becoming more similar like his sibling would only serve to crush Sandor. Perhaps, it would even mean his... his end.

“You'd never be truly like Ser Gregor,” Sansa offered.

Her bridegroom snorted again.

“You won't tell me such honeyed words once I've lost control and you're on the earth, bleeding between your legs and crying in pain and horror. Do you even know how it works? I've got to push my hard cock up your tight little cunt to break your maidenhood. To make you bleed. And since I'm a grown man with a grown man's needs, I'll lose control and will thrust into you until I spill my seed. That's what will happen. Great prospect, isn't it? And now tell me it won't be rape. Never mind that shit back in the throne room has declared us married. Doesn't make you desire me any more than before, does it?”

 

Sansa's head was swimming at these harsh words. What Sandor had just described to her was far from the flowery hints she'd heard elsewhere. Those allusions had ranged from “a duty one had to perform” to “rather enjoyable, once the initial pain was over”. Now why didn't those descriptions go together? Had her mother and the others lied? Was her bridegroom lying? Or could these things be so different in quality?

 

One detail jumped into focus.

“ _Doesn't make you desire me any more than before, does it?”_

“What if I desired you?” Sansa asked. “Would that change anything?”

Sandor stared at her for an instant, then threw up his hands into the air.

“Of course, desire would change everything, stupid little bird. If a woman wants a man, what's happening is not against her will. Only you can't force yourself to feel something you don't feel. And since you don't desire me, it's of no relevance.”

 

Sansa gazed at her bridegroom and thought of something she'd heard her mother say once about her own wedding. Hers and her father's marriage hadn't been a love match at the beginning, but they had found together over time. Surely, their wedding night hadn't been rape, had it?

“What about all those arranged marriages out there?” Sansa asked. “I know that some of them are unhappy.” Had King Robert raped Cersei? The thought came unbidden, and Sansa pushed it aside. “But some marriages develop positively. Little as I know, I can't believe that would be possible if the marriage bed was so unhappy. Is there anything we can do? Is there anything that can... uuuhhh... inspire... – you know?” She waved her hand. “What could I possibly do? You must know more, so you've got to tell me. Please.”

Sansa's voice was tiny at the end of her soliloquy, and she cast down her eyes.

 

Sandor breathed out deeply and moved somewhat uneasily. He sat down on the green grass, gingerly, leaned back against a tree trunk, and Sansa realised his wound was still hurting. She sat down as well. For once, her bridegroom was the one who didn't look at her when he spoke.

“What would I know, little bird? Do you think maids are lining up to follow me to my bed, scarred dog that I am? I know shit about honeyed words. I'm not your Florian. There are some loose women out there. Experienced women. No blue blood, no nothing. I didn't have to teach them anything, nor did they teach me anything. Those were just few short encounters. No meaning. No responsibilities. Not even bastards, from all I know.”

 

Slowly, Sansa moved towards her husband's side. She placed a shy hand on his calloused one and felt herself blush even more. Sandor blinked, furrowed his brow, then gazed at her with his intense slate eyes.

Sansa sighed. She thought of his muscled torso.

“Looks like we must learn things together then. And I don't know – maybe, it won't work so well at the beginning, but we can try. Granted, we're not so good when we're doing something for the first time. Perhaps that's true for a marriage, too?”

 

Sandor chuckled, but it sounded fatalistic.

“In that case, I should give you a view of my cock. You'll reassess your opinion quickly enough, little bird.”

Sansa thought there was dragon fire heating her cheeks. She nibbled on her lower lip and shrugged helplessly.

“If you think so. I... I mean... now that we're spouses...,” she stammered.

 

Her bridegroom undid the laces of his breeches and pushed the fabric aside. Sansa's eyes bulged and she was grateful she was already sitting.

On impulse, she peeped, “And you've always got to run around with such a thing between your le–?“

She stopped short and clapped a hand over her lips.

The burned corner of Sandor's mouth twitched.

“Aaah, see, you learn to get along with it if you're born with it. And most of the time, it's a bit smaller and softer.”

 

Sansa blinked rapidly and thought she should look away, but was glued to the display in front of her.

“And now, it's not, because...?”

“A man has got little control over a cock. Even when the rest of the body is asleep. It's got a will of its own.”

The next moment, something happened that caused Sansa to feel she was losing her mind.

“Was that a twitch?”

“It's waving at you, little bird. An invitation to come over, sit down on it, and impale yourself.”

Sansa's mouth hung open in a most unladylike way for an instant.

“That's possible?” she blurted out.

There was the tiniest spark of impish delight in the Hound's eyes.

“Sure. You thought it could only be done with the woman on the back?”

 

Sansa pulled in her head.

“I've never heard anything else. But... if I sat down on you... if I did it myself... it wouldn't be rape, would it?”

Sandor rubbed his face quickly with his hand. The burned corner of his mouth twitched even more than his... his...

“Don't know,” he growled. “I'm no good at theories. Only... I'd still lose control. And you'd still hurt.”

“I see,” Sansa breathed. She cocked her head. “But somehow, it still sounds a bit better to my ears. I guess we'd be in problems if we didn't consummate our marriage?”

“We'll be in problems, no matter what, little bird. The old lion will be none too happy about what has transpired without his knowledge.”

 

She didn't know why, but Sansa was suddenly convinced that doing some outrageous things with Sandor Clegane would be the lesser evil in comparison to an annulled marriage. If she didn't give herself to the Hound, she'd still have to do the same things with someone else.

With sudden determination, she announced, “Whatever it is, I'm done with being a maid. And one more thing: I'll rather be your wife than your widow.”

Sandor's good eyebrow rose. He coughed into his hand. Next, he pointed.

“Well, my cock doesn't object, as you can see. If that's what you want... Pull down your smallclothes, lift your skirts, and take a seat.”

 

Sansa obeyed, even if her heart was trying to beat a path out of its ribcage. Not in her wildest dreams would she have thought her wedding day could be like this. Not ever. But then again, she would have never assumed either that Sandor Clegane would be the bridegroom in question.

She acted quickly, so as not to lose her courage, and hopped onto the Hound's lap.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed, and Sansa froze. “My cock is more sensitive than the rest of me, and that wasn't the right angle.”

“It wasn't?” Sansa peeped and wanted to sink into the ground.

“Am I inside of you?”

“You're not? – Errr, no, I don't think so. You're right.”

“See.”

“Mhm...”

“You must open your legs and straddle me, little bird. Let me direct you, so we can find your opening.”

 

Sansa frantically readjusted her seat. Suddenly, Sandor's hands were under her skirts and grabbed her hips to steer her into the right direction. Moreover, she could feel his hot, aroused flesh against her private parts. Her very core started to tremble, and Sansa wanted to run for the hills – but at the same time, her body showed no intentions of actually trying to flee. It was weird.

 

“Here we are,” Sandor finally declared. “You just have to lower yourself, and –”

Sansa sat down quickly and forcefully.

She squealed.

Then, she shot upwards and hopped away from her bridegroom with awkward movements.

“Gods!” she finally managed to breathe.

From behind her, there was a dark voice. It was rife with tension.

“It was no secret it would hurt.”

Sansa nodded, but needed another moment to catch her breathing. Then, she managed to look into her bridegroom's direction.

 

There was a smear of blood on his... manhood, which was still erect. Sandor got out one of his handkerchiefs and wiped the blood away. Next, he wrapped a hand around his private parts and... started to rub up and down.

Sansa had no clue what in the name of the Seven was happening, and she got worried when her husband tensed more and more.

Moments later, he grunted, and suddenly, a whitish liquid spurted forth from his manhood. Sansa needed a split second to understand that this wasn't urine. She cobbled together what the Hound had said about the mating process, and she guessed that what had just happened was some... sort of surrogate for the main act with her.

“ _I've failed him,”_ Sansa thought and felt thoroughly ashamed.

 


	3. Dénouement

Strangely enough, Sandor didn't seem to see it that way. When he came back to his senses, he wiped his private parts a second time and threw the handkerchief onto the grass right next to him.

“This was probably as decent as it would get in this shitty situation,” he declared. “Shortest deflowering ever, I'd wager.”

 

Not knowing what to answer to these outrageous words, Sansa asked, “And what will happen next? I mean... You're a lord now. The Lord of Castamere. Where will we stay?”

Sandor glared at her, anger returning to his eyes.

“The humble room of a Shield would be below your dignity – is that the way of it, little bird?”

“Of course not!” Sansa hurried to emphasise. “It's just... You've risen in status, so what now?”

“I've got the status of a rat's arse, and never think otherwise,” the Hound growled. “Anyway, I expected the king to toss me a bone, not a whole giant tomb of bones. Don't know which fool found it a good jape to whisper into the king's ear that making me a lord would be a funny thing. Must be someone who wanted to make sure his grandfather would feel the urge to throttle me for the title of 'Lord of Castamere'.”

 

“Should I feel addressed?” a second male voice said from behind them, and Sandor and Sansa both started and looked into the direction where the voice had come from. They went rigid when it became apparent who had joined their conversation without them noticing: it was no other than Lord Lannister, now without his armour, but still in fine garb. And he looked even less amused than he usually seemed to do, given what Sansa had heard about him.

Sansa's eyes darted to her smallclothes in the grass, as well as the dirtied handkerchief, and she wanted to die in shame. How much had Joffrey's grandfather witnessed? Gracious gods!

 

Sandor and Sansa both stood up; Sandor bowed stiffly and Sansa curtsied.

“Lord Hand,” they said in unison.

Lord Tywin spoke, “You're wrong, Clegane. I don't just want to throttle you for the title, but also for taking the key to the North, which would have belonged to the Lannisters by right.”

The Hound didn't answer, didn't defend himself, so all of a sudden, Sansa heard herself say, “My bridegroom is a loyal Lannister man. He'll will be a loyal lord, and I'm his loyal wife now.”

 

Lord Tywin cast a searing glance at her.

“I believe in fear, not in loyalty.”

“You're a lonely man then, mylord.”

The words were out before Sansa could stop herself. At once, she thought the Lannister patriarch would order someone to cut out her tongue. She also noticed Sandor wince.

 

Lord Tywin stared at her for two or three heartbeats.

Then, he said, “All political leaders are lonely men. Only some may not want to see the truth of it. But truth is essential if you want to survive.”

Sansa didn't know what drove her, but this arrogant man was like the worst itch – an itch she needed to scratch.

“If you ever require any ugly truths you don't want to hear, my lord...”

She faltered, then squared her shoulders for the inevitable. She remembered the day on the battlements when Joffrey had showed her her father's head, and when she had nearly done something stupid in return. This moment was worse, inasfar as that she had actually crossed a red line now.

 

Lord Tywin continued to stare at her.

“I don't know why people keep comparing you to your mother when you're so very much like your father in all the relevant points.” It didn't sound like a compliment. Next, the man turned to Sandor. “Now, Clegane. You and your wife will reside in Maegor's Holdfast. Once you have recovered some more, you'll have to kneel in front of me. In about two weeks, I should say. The kennel full of bones is waiting.”

With those words, the Lannister patriarch turned around and left.

 

Sansa started to tremble.

“Are you mad?” the Hound rasped at her.

Sansa nodded.

“I must have been. Why didn't he order my instantaneous apprehension, or even execution?”

Sandor shrugged.

“He'll keep us under surveillance in Maegor's Holdfast. Besides... might be he sees you as a good punishment for me.”

Sansa shook her head in disbelief.

“I'm not my sister.”

Sandor snorted.

“I wonder what he'd have said to her. Anyway. I've seen too many men shit themselves with fear in the old lion's presence. Scarcely know anyone who doesn't, come to think of it. He must have been impressed.”

 

Sansa shook her head, because she still couldn't believe what had happened. To busy herself, she picked up her smallclothes and wriggled into them, all the while blushing again.

“Do you think he witnessed...?”

“Had he been able to forego the consummation, he'd have done so. You're too important a piece in the Game of Thrones for him, little bird. You've heard him admit as much.”

Sansa bit her lip.

“I don't want to be a piece in a game.”

Sandor sighed.

“We're all pieces in the Game of Thrones, little bird, no matter what. The only question is whether we're important ones or not.”

 

Suddenly, Sansa placed a careful hand on her bridegroom's bandaged side.

“You aren't playing any power games with me. And that's good. Really, things are difficult between us, but at least we've got this. It's a starting point.”

Sansa felt her husband's hesitant, calloused fingers comb through her hair, and she relaxed against him. She also remembered how he had dabbed at her bleeding lip once, and she thought that underneath all his coarse behaviour, there was a well-hidden – but all the more welcome – layer of gentleness.

“Sandor,” she whispered against his chest. “I haven't learned yet how to desire you... but I think I might like to try out a kiss.”

 

Her husband tensed.

“And here you've been chirping about not playing any games.”

Sansa looked up at him and discovered a hint of vulnerability under the mask of annoyment. Oh, she knew her share of protective masks – why had she never seen the same in the Hound? All this barking, a defensive strategy.

On instinct, Sansa cupped her bridegroom's face, the good and the burned side alike. The scarred flesh didn't feel nice, but it was a part of who Sandor was, and Sansa wasn't disgusted anymore.

“This is the truth. You're no knight, no Florian, and I know it well. But I also know I don't want to remain a lone wolf. Can't we be a little less lonely together? After all, a first kiss won't hurt like a first coupling, will it?”

 

Sandor looked down at her, and there was a pandemonium of feelings in his eyes. Then, he closed his lids, lowered his face, and placed his mouth onto hers in a manner that could only be called shy.

Sansa's heart fluttered, the little bird inside her soaring. Somehow, her arms sneaked around her bridegroom's neck, her fingers into his dark hair, and she forgot the world around her.

At the same time, she realised she had been wrong. This first kiss hurt worse than their first coupling – but it did so in the most beautiful way. A wolf and a dog, the mere possibility of it – and she had never known. But now she did. Now she did.

 


End file.
